


I've been caught up in the riptide

by kaygoesmoo



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Berlin and Palermo don't know each other, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Palermo and Berlin are neighbours, Set before Mint Heist and Bank Heist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25809940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaygoesmoo/pseuds/kaygoesmoo
Summary: Martin was exquisite. He was his spark, his deity — waspish and refreshing, his poison. He was breathtaking in his melancholy and dazzling with his acridity. Andres could spend years portraying his beauty with poems and paintings.Martin was the sole reason he was alive.Just like his pills.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Professor | Sergio Marquina, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Tatiana, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	1. June 5th.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is set before both heists, in this universe, Berlin is still sick and moves into his new flat where he meets his neighbor — Palermo. 
> 
> I don't really have anything else to say, just that this story is fully plotted out and may have unexpected turns. I will tag everything and put additional trigger warnings in front of chapters if they apply. 
> 
> Also, the first chapter is kind of a pilot chapter and is smöl.

June 5th.

Andres had a shit day. 

His favorite powder-blue cabriolet, his beloved Pegaso Z-102 from Saoutchik got its windshield cracked and needed immediate repairs. That car was his most proud possession, bought from a private collector in Monaco, and brought to Madrid. It cost him a fortune but after a few successful attacks on jewelry stores, he had enough money to buy this car and even more.

He despised truck drivers for those stones that flew right into his windshield but more importantly he despised Violet, his ex-fiance who made him drive three hours all the way to Alacant, San Juan Playa just to break off their engagement. He left that bitch there, standing alone on the white sand and drove back to Madrid most definitely breaking a speed limit more than a couple of times. His reservation for a week in Lucas de Catedral went up in flames and he honestly couldn’t care less. 

And now he was standing in his new flat, bought for his post-wedding bliss with Violet, which is not going to happen now, cursing every single deity he knew. Everything reminded him of her: endless photos on the walls and the white marble fireplace in the middle of the living room. The bright colors of furniture she chose were like splashes of life in the overall ‘muted’ flat. Retro turquoise of the fridge and a microwave, breathtaking burgundy of leather armchairs, lively yellow carpet in the middle of ‘their’ bathroom, and the elegant purple of the silk bedsheets. 

He cusses and swears while taking off his shoes in the hallway and strides into the living room, collecting all his photos with Violet and throws them in the trash. He is not a 14-year-old virgin after her first heartbreak but this shit still hurts like hell. He really needs a drink. 

Whiskey sears his throat when he swallows, the burn expected but not unwelcome. 16YO Lagavulin Malt is fruity but not sickeningly so. He sits on the high chair, elbows resting on the intricate carvings of the dark wood of the bar counter. He plays with the glass, hazel splashing left to right, ice tinkling. 

He muses, thinking about Violet. She was a nice distraction from his myopathy — charming, her beauty suffocating, proud and elegant — but she wasn’t what he needed. Too suffocating, too meddling, too old even. She wasn’t old per se but her inner spark was not enough to support them both. He, however, wasn’t ready to let her go and their parting came as a surprise. 

He was angry. Andres was not the type to be caught off guard, not the type to be dumped by some no-name opera singer, not the type to drown his sorrows in whiskey. But apparently, all of it happened in one day. So he drinks more until he starts feeling lightheaded until his shitty day doesn’t affect him anymore. 

He goes to sleep early, sleeping on top of the covers just so he doesn’t see those purple bedsheets. 

***

He wakes up at his normal time, a bit later than 9 am. Makes an espresso with the help of his fancy coffee machine and adds a few drops of brandy. He doesn’t have much appetite so he takes one of the shiny grapefruits from a fruit bowl and cuts into it with a sharp knife. The juice splashes everywhere, a couple of drops ending on his expensive gown, but most of it going down his fingers, running lower past his wrist and stopping at some point above his elbow. Andres eats slowly, keeping his dignity and then cleans the table and washes his hands from the sticky juice. 

Bottle of brandy goes back to one of the shelves but not before he collects several drops from the neck of the bottle with his finger and then quickly licks off the alcohol.

He decides to spend his day lounging in one of the deck chairs on his balcony just to compensate for all the sun he could have had on San Juan Playa with Violet. The air outside is fresh and he basks in sunlight occasionally napping a few times, sometimes going back to make himself one more glass of a disgustingly healthy smoothie Sergio recommended him. More like threatened, actually.

At some point when the sun is close to rolling over the horizon, he feels familiar shakes in his arms and goes back inside, collecting all empty glasses and tightly closes the balcony door. The sting of the syringe is bad but the hotness he feels when the steroids spill under his skin is much worse. He hisses, opens-and-closes his palm a few times, and throws everything in the trash.

He doesn’t feel like doing anything. Illness makes it hard for him — it is never easy to understand that he doesn’t have much time left. His only passion is robberies but he hasn’t had one in a while. His wives, his ‘arm candies’ don’t interest him for more than a couple of months and he usually had another one already waiting for him by the time he divorced. This time it didn’t work out like that and left him feeling empty and maybe a bit betrayed. 

He desperately needs someone to share their spark with him and he most definitely needs a heist to make everything better.


	2. June 11th.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well the last fluffyish chapter,,, buckle up bois because we are on the angst train

June 11th 

They met at some luxurious classy restaurant. Andres was there seducing Vitoria Pereira — the owner of an independent art gallery, which recently opened an exhibition of one of the thirty-four paintings attributed to Vermeer with a value estimated at 250 million dollars. Promising.

Tatiana was there — a professional pianist, making his evening livelier with skillful accords, and while on short breaks at the bar stealing watches and rings from unsuspecting patrons. Andres noticed her three days ago when he first spent his lonely evening in El Picaporte. She was bold and defiant, the fire in her eyes shining as brightly as her hair. He finally decided to present her the offer today. After three days of silent observations, he knew that Tatiana — he heard her introduce herself to a kind old man sitting next to him — was exactly who he needed for this heist. He caught her right when she was exiting through the main doors, hand on her elbow, bringing her closer for the private talk. 

They were alone on the street, it was drizzling and the hat Andres was wearing was not a big help.

“Well hello, young lady”. He said, holding her elbow firmly.

“I will scream and the porter right outside those doors will be the last thing you see before he knocks you out”. 

“Hush, hush, I,” he gestures to emphasize his point. “have a business proposal”.

“Huh?” her expression changes immediately and she no longer looks as hostile as she did before. “What do you mean by that?”

With a smirk never leaving his face he loosens his hold on her elbow and dives for the front pocket of her jacket. “I just find fashion amusing nowadays. Why wear something with pockets as big as these? It makes it easier for me to steal everything back”, he retreats his hand, with two pairs of watches in his knuckles, white gold and diamonds shining in the dim light of street lamps. “Those poor old gentlemen”.

“I will scream in approximately five seconds. One”.

Andres finds it amusing. The nerve of this lady!

“Two”.

“Three”.

He chuckles. “Okay-okay, spitfire. I need a partner in crime. You ever heard of the Pereira’s independent art gallery?”

“The one in Chamberí?”

“A-ha”

“They are extremely mediocre. Some schlimazel artists from the nineties praising themselves as if they are gods when in reality their works aren’t even worth a penny”.

“Don’t be so harsh. They have a very interesting exhibition until the end of June. There will be Vermeer”.

“Don’t tell me you want to steal Vermeer. ‘The Concert’ right? It will be incredibly hard”, she muses. 

“And profitable. It is worth more than 200 million dollars. Are you in?” This is the moment of truth — he either found a very promising, skillful partner with quick hands, wit and charm, or his biggest regret this week. 

“So, you want to get into the gallery, somehow get rid of 10 to 15 guards, steal Vermeer without tripping the alarm, and escape? Do you know that the police will be on their way the second we step in the gallery? Also, what do we do if we get out? Go home as if nothing happened?”

“I have about three backup plans in case anything goes wrong”.

“And what? I am just supposed to believe you? Some random man I met five minutes ago? And trust you to not leave me behind in the gallery?”

“Well, you see I am also trusting you to not hand me over to the police. I can’t do this alone and the reward will be worth it. 50/50, how does this sound?”

“I am in”. She nods, closely following his facial expressions, and then pushes the hem of his jacket open to sneak a business card in his inner pocket. 

She was his first spark.

***

His second spark was Martin, who lived in the flat just opposite of his.

They met in the main hallway of the apartment building, Andres colliding with Martin who was collecting his mail from the metallic post boxes engraved with the numbers of the flats. He seemed to be distressed, frantic even, gripping the white austere envelope — with a military seal and words in an unknown language — fingertips turning yellowish-white because of the force of his hold.

They didn’t talk that day — it was 9th of June — Andres was hurrying to visit his brother and his family in Toledo for their little anniversary. Sergio was a lucky bastard who managed to, once again, forge his documents to buy one of the mansions and was now living there with his disgustingly sweet little family consisting of him, his fiancé Raquel — an ex-police officer — her baby daughter Paula and her mother. He hated that woman — she was perceptive, quick-witted, and always seemed to know what exactly to say to get on Andres’ nerves. 

He spent an hour driving to their new house, stopping on some dingy gas station in the middle of nowhere to buy the worst shot of espresso he ever drank. The worker inside the little shop skeptically stared at him — dressed in one of his red velvet jackets, cream shirt, and a hat — then looked over at his Pegaso parked outside and stiffened, murmuring something about Italian mafia being a pain in the ass.

When Andres arrived at the mansion he was surprised. It looked absolutely stunning and regal. The grounds surrounding it were perfect for hunting or for keeping a small vineyard. Which of course Sergio was doing with his stupid apple cider project. No matter how genius he was with all his heist ideas, sometimes his little brother was a bit too dumb. 

He drives through the toreutic steel gates and parks close to the house. Presses his hand on the wheel to beep and announce his presence. The door of the house opens and Raquel steps outside, holding a baby Paula in her hands. He greets her while bending over the side of the car to get the presents out. They enter the house and he leaves the boxes on the small coffee table in the living room, Raquel asking him to help her carry the food to the outside table.

When they are outside, he sees Sergio talking with Raquel’s mother while sipping on his god-awful cider. The smile on his face becomes even wider when they finally hug after not seeing each other for months.

“Hermanito”, he proclaims, tightly clutching his little brother in his arms. “I missed you”.

“I missed you too, Andres. How are things with Violet?”

Andres pauses, teeth clenching. “We parted. She turned out to be good for nothing. How is your little family doing?”

“We are well”. Sergio smiles, taking Paula from Raquel’s hands. “Paula, did you miss your Tio Andres?”

The child is not particularly interested in Sergio’s question, choosing instead to drool on her fingers. Raquel chuckles and invites them to the table.

They laugh, eat, and chat. Not for long, however.

He excuses himself from the table in the middle of the second dish and slips into the bathroom. 

His hands started shaking so much that he started splashing the soup everywhere with his spoon. And all those pitying looks from everyone… So he went inside, grabbed his meds, and disappeared into the bathroom. He splashed some water on his face, hands clutching the ceramic sides of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. 

The syringe pierces his skin easily, the acidic burn constant and familiar. He also swallows his pills — a new medicine that he got prescribed a few days ago. The pills go down easily, water from the sink — tastes a bit metallic — soothes his throat.

Andres returns to the table, and they finish lunch never stopping talking, Sergio trying to fill the uncomfortable silence with his ramblings about characteristics of a perfect apple cider.

Much later, when they are sitting by the fire in the living room, slowly sipping red wine from crystal glasses, Andres drops his first bomb. 

“I’m planning on a new heist. Pereira gallery in Chamberí, 15th of June — last day of the Vermeer exhibition. 250 million dollars for ‘The Concert’”

“What? You are not going to share anything else?” Sergio looks stunned, opening and closing his mouth.

“Hermanito, I am sure you are going to hear everything from the news. Besides I am not going to be alone, I found someone”.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! you can always find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/palermoslaleche)!! (@palermoslaleche)


End file.
